I have seen the sadness in your eyes–that slow drowning, it is also mine.
And the way you plead your cries–the clamoring capricious stare, yare and young–toothless pleading old almost ancient now receding.
These sedentary habits interminably do lavishly let go, languid in their language, far and flowing down below; as an ancient dragon digging deeper I consent to nascent nagging evoked by the hero in your woes.
You should admit you were remiss, and now the fervent word would come close to fickle, as memories of me sweating body will not let go.
Little horn, seven eyes, seraphim singing off-key through the Ophanim. Enoch, the way back home is longer, take this noose instead, made of rope woven from the fictional fabric of your very existence.
that ring through
where men and
like the hunted
while feet lost toes
through trite steps
Cull commencing beneath a black sun
Hooded robes while farouched canaries begin their song
Stoned giants quietly labyrinthed in postition
The conundrum seemed purloined
As the resolve was simply hid from the right side of the path
I want your daughter to dance for me in her idea of all opulence
Twelve heads will I deliver on four platters
Sliding whilst mounted upon sanguine sauce
Up to half of my kingdom will I allow her
If only she dances on you–her mother’s corpse